


Heatstroke

by oh_cripe_my_fish



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: FrUK, Humour, M/M, disaster fruk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2019-10-30 11:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17827502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_cripe_my_fish/pseuds/oh_cripe_my_fish
Summary: After a decision is made between their bosses, France and England are sent on a holiday to Spain in an attempt to "fix their relationship". It goes - arguably -  too well, however, considering a week into their supposedly relaxing trip they both wake up hungover, France naked on a lilo, England thoroughly sunburnt while in France's speedos, both with complementary tramp stamps and matching rings. What exactly went on, where the hell is Prussia and what are they going to tell the others?





	1. Chapter 1

"I wanted a white wedding! Not some cheap, spontaneous one I can't remember! I bet the pictures weren't even glamorous!" France says in hysterics, staring, horrified at the golden band encasing his ring finger. "With tapestries and flowers and vines everywhere, a chapel filled with roses, a huge cake twice the size of my countries debt, a gorgeous suit - probably a collab between Armani and Chanel-"

" _That_ is what you're concerned about!?" England roars, not quite knowing what other reaction to have in his shock. "I am wearing a _suspiciously identical_ ring to yours, we have each other’s names freshly tattooed on pour pelvis’-“ England looks down, distraught. It was red and raised and  _painful_ curly calligraphy entwined with roses and lilies _._  “- and _the_ _type_ of wedding you _didn't_ have is what you're worried about!?"

"Mon Dieu _,_ breathe. It's not that big of a deal, we can always divorce if we can't make things work." France shrugs, doing a complete 180 with his attitude towards the whole affair, frustrating England. "And for all we know, I married one of the local ladies and you married that barman who was flirting with you – you were all over him. Guillermo was very nice, by the way. Congratulations, Angleterre! I didn’t know you had such game-"

"God, you were drunker that I thought!" The Englishman slaps a hand to his throbbing forehead, throbbing with both alcohol and yesterdays sunburn, in despair. "I only remember kissing you while drunkards cheered, then falling down an entire flight of stairs. I don't remember any barmen called Guillermo!”

“You were obviously drunker than _you_ thought. That’s all you remember?” France  turns England's own words back on England, scratches his chin thoughtfully, apparently now over not getting his ideal white wedding.

“Well- it’s the only certainty- everything else, it… it..." England stammered. "It's not entirely there. But I'm sure I would remember a Guillermo!”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it." France tries to comfort. "Maybe you don't remember Guillermo because Guillermo might not have been Guillermo. He might have been a Perez? Although he looked like a Jose. I don't really remember anything clearly either-"

England's head snaps up, eyes lifting from boring down into his own palms as if they had betrayed him, profoundly. "How does someone look like a name-" He starts to ask, then flails his arms in exasperation, "you know what France? I don't care! Just- Just shut up. My heads pounding and your voice is like a pickax to my skull. This is humiliating."

France, surprisingly, did as requested. He shuffled on his bare feet, pulling the neon pink lilo across his loins further, flashing a sheepish smile at the tired hotel employee cleaning the pool with a net in preparation for the guests waking for their breakfast. The Spanish morning sunshine peaked over the horizon, the perfect temperature, expected to get hotter as the morning progressed. It illuminated France's bare buttocks in a warm morning light.

The sluggish Spaniard yawned at France despite the transparency of the lilo. England's reaction, when his eyes strayed beyond the hair of France's chin and chest, was much less lackadaisical.

"For the love of- that glorified balloon does absolutely nothing for your dignity!” England points out, vexed. 

“Glorified balloon? That is so dumb mon ami." bemoans France. "Do you  have a personal vendetta against lilos now too? Why do you have to hate everything good and fun in life?” he then asks the sky dramatically, making England's eye twitch. 

“If you must know, anything that fails to cover your-“ England splutters, “your manhood, I have a fervent dislike for!”

“but lilos let  _you sleep on water_. That’s great, no? Mon garcon Jesus Christ didn’t even manage that- or at least, the bible didn’t document it.”

“Please don’t- Just put some pants on, or at least swimming trunks!" England demands, scratching at the sunburn over is ribs, freckly cheeks visibly reddening despite the sheer redness the sun had already caused. "Nobody wants to see your little Eiffel tower!"

" _Little!_?" France squawks.

With defiant eyes, England returns the offended look, fearless. "That's right! You heard me!"

"What am I supposed to cover my _little_ Eiffel with? Huh!?" France huffs, a touch of colour now on his tanning cheeks. Constant sunshine was much more gentle on the Frenchman's skin. "Obviously not _my speedos_ , since _you're_ wearing them, for some bizarre reason!"

"I'm _what!?"_

England's eyes widen so much and so fast France would've found it comical if they weren't in the middle of arguing. The Englishman 's flush spreads down his neck and across his torso as fast as the black plague had swept through Europe and he looks down in disbelief

" _These are yours!_?" this Englishman squeaks, voice suddenly failing him. Conveniently, the memory of France pulling the infernal things from his suitcase chooses this moment to resurface. England had provided his unwanted, cutting critique at the time.

"Can I have them back please?” France holds out his hand in expectation. “I'm pretty sure the restaurant behind us is enjoying the view of the southern slopes too much."

"W-what sort of way is that to refer to your ass!?"

"Fine. Midi Pyrenees-"

" _That's even worse!"_

"Just give me my speedos back so I don't have to be the one doing the real walk of shame to through the lobby! We'll swap, I'll give you the lilo in exchange-"

“ _Since when_ has the walk of shame been the walk of shame to you?” England says in indignation. This wasn't fair, not at all, it was an outrage! What sort of scheming higher power would allow this to happen to him-

“They’re mine. Hand. Them. Over.” France wiggles his fingers and pouts.

" _Fine_ , if you'll give me a moment to... to..." England, heart thundering, and not exactly prepared to strip down in front of the eyes peering out of the restaurant, thinks quickly and does the only thing someone as rational as him would do - jumps forward to push France into the pool before sprinting off with a smidgen of his privacy remaining.

"Angleterre! _Delinquent!_ " He can hear France shouting between spluttering and coughing up water from his lungs.  England dares not look back. It was too late for that now.

“Um, senor – the pool isn’t ready to be entered yet.” The pool boy says to a soaking wet France who was thrashing, attempting to cling onto the lilo. Once France secures his grip and steadies himself, the pool boy redirects his eyes and suppresses his laughter at the smouldering glare he got for his comment, deciding to whistle some Enrique Iglesias and focus back on his work instead.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh thank God!" England whispers from his spot on the floor leaning against the door. His quietness stemmed from being harrowingly told off by a body builder from Liverpool in the room across from theirs for pounding loudly on his own door demanding to be let in. England realised 5 minutes into his flustered arguing with the intimidating man (almost as big and broad as Germany, quite the alarming sight) that no one was inside, considering the Englishman was locked out and France was last seen in the pool, courtesy of England's hasty escape. A part of him had been too hopeful, pleading with a higher deity for Spain or Prussia to have stolen their key card and crashed in their room.

"There you are!" England says to France who sauntered towards him as if he had all the time in the world. "Do you have the key?"

"You don't?" France asked, unsurprised, so unsurprised in fact he'd had the premonition to request another (rather, flirt for another - considering he needed money to pay the fine for losing the card first, then provide photographic evidence that he was indeed one of the occupants of the room, which was impossible, considering he couldn't find his wallet and both of their passports and remaining cash was locked in the safe inside) Triumphantly, he held aloft their key to sweet solitude, also the key to their belongings - their clothes in particular.

"Of course I don't have one!" England smouldered  where he sat, but the Englishman's shoulders slumped in relief at the sight of the card. "Look at me, do I look like I have anywhere to put it?" He asked, tone dripping in sarcasm. It was a rhetorical question. France, in true oppositionary fashion, answered anyway, his eyebrows raising in question.

"Are you absolutely sure you don't have it clenched between your ass cheeks?"

"Wha-wha-" England spluttered and burned an even brighter red than his alarming sunburn. "Of course I’m sure I don’t! What sort of perverted-"

"Oh sorry! my mistake." France interrupted quickly. "I confused it with the huge stick up your ass. Lighten up, mon ami. We’re on holiday, no?"

"Lighten up?" England squinted up at his French neighbour. " _Lighten up_?" He repeated, taking a deep breath, a tell-take sign he was about to go on a rant. "I  _just sat for 45 minutes in your uncomfortably tight, revealing speedos_  waiting for your reappearance as  _respectable_  people wandered past me wondering what sort of loony I was! I am thirsty, hungry, faint with heat and stress and  _disbelief_ , I'm hungover, I haven't had a cup of tea yet and it's nearly half 9 and you _dare_ have the  _audacity_  to tell me to  _lighten up_?!" England's face was red, barely taking a breath as the words spewed from him. " _What were you doing that took you so long?!"_ He hissed, thinking he was being quiet enough. He wasn't.

The door across the hall slammed open, "shut the fuck up!" The body building scouser growled. "Or at least take your argument with your friend elsewhere!"

"He's my husband, handsome. Newlyweds actually." France said with a flirtatious wink as he flashed the ring on his wedding finger, unable to resist, relishing the aghast expression from England and the flustered, irked glare from the scouser.

"Do I look like I give a fuck?! Just shut it!" The man countered, sighing and slamming his door in their faces.

"He seems nice," France said with a shrug. "What was I going to say? Ah, oui-  I was getting us another keycard, obviously." He answered, not giving England time to fit in a complaint for fear the complaining would never stop. "I also had some breakfast after I gave away our lilo to a group of mademoiselles out on their hen party to rent this cute towel." England squinted at the white towel France was modelling with unmissable neon pink print on it. "They stop serving breakfast in a hour, by the way." France continued charitably. "Better hurry mon cher."

"... ' _The Last fling before the ring_ '..." England reads the towel aloud, distress in his eyes at the irony.

Oh God, he hadn't had enough flings in his life! France surely had plenty, but England hadn't lived to the fullest! He wasn't ready to commit. What if he couldn't divorce France? What if it cost him an extortionate amount to divorce France? What if he had to pay off half of France's national debt? He already had enough debt of his own to deal with! What if France took the good expensive crockery in the divorce, or demanded some of Canada's baby pictures? And finally, what was their bosses going to say at this absolute idiocy? Would he forever be considered a threat to national security because he married an immortal anglophobic Frenchman? Would he ever be semi-respected in Westminster again? What about-

" _Last fling before the ring_ , huh? Is that what it says?" France hummed, fascinated, interrupting England's spiralling thoughts while blissfully unaware of England's internal existential crisis. He wasn't much of a worrier over the big things - rather, more overdramatic about a haircut going wrong or spilling wine on his most expensive suit. "It's in English so I didn't bother reading it." France adds, laughing as England smacks aside his extended hand to help him from the floor. The Englishman pushes off the floor like a strong independent Englishman who doesn't need a Frenchman, then stands awkwardly, shuffling on his feet before swallowing his pride and holding out a hand reluctantly.

France stares down at England's open palm, puzzled. "Non." He says. "We may be married but we aren't there  _just_  yet. if you wanted to hold my hand, you should've accepted it a second ago." France lifted his chin, knowing the words would drive his favourite neighbour right up the wall and across the ceiling.

"No- I'm not looking to-" England spluttered. "Give me the key card you twit!" He huffed, "and stop reminding me we're- we're-" England couldn't get the words out.

"Married? Non." France says defiantly, nose in the air as he refuses to hand England the key card and pushes past him to open the door. "You also can’t have the card either. You lost our first one on the first day, remember?"

"That's utter Bollocks! It was stolen, I tell you!"

"By the faeries?"

"Oh- piss off, alright?" England bemoans, following on France's heel.

Closing the door none too gently, England pauses on his way towards a half-eaten share bag of Lays gluten free crisps (the closest thing to Walkers he could find), currently at that strange stage in his hangover where he's starving but unsure if eating will settle the sickness or make it ten times worse. He's in no hurry to reach the restaurant before it closes, not trusting himself  _not_  to vomit the moment his lips touch food. Eyeing  the tiny travel kettle he'd brought with him, the Englishman storms over to his suitcase, hauls out his favourite tea, then storms over to the kettle to get to work on curing himself so he could later fix his life, hangover free.

France flops onto the sofa, or what had become his sleeping arrangements the moment they had arrived at the hotel to find out the hotel had messed up their rooming arrangements and gave them a room with one double instead of two singles. Why their bosses thought they couldn't have two separate rooms was a mystery to them. England honestly thought his boss truly wanted to make his life a misery. But after a lot of confusion and commotion, both England and France had given up on making a scene and changing their sleeping arrangements - considering the hotel was a needlessly expensive and popular one, everything that was left was out of their price range.

"There's madeleines above the sink if you're hungry?" France tells England helpfully, yawning and cracking his neck as the Englishman glares at him in poignant silence before trying to discreetly open the cupboard, pulling one out and slowly biting into it as the kettle boiled.

"Surely you've been married before and have had to get a divorce," England says, swallowing down his madeleine. "What's the protocol here?"

France gapes at him. "Don't mistake me for Austria mon ami!" he says abashedly. "We might both be very pretty-" at this England scoffed "but we are both very different! Firstly, I don't like classical music that much. Secondly, I'd try to make a marriage work!"

"Good luck trying make this one work." England muttered grumpily, making up his tea after the tiny kettle flipped its automated switch. France either didn't hear the quiet, sour statement over the boiling water, or elected to ignore it.

"Before we do anything- we need to work out if this was actually officiated first," France said resolutely, "No point trying to divorce if it was a stripper dressed as a priest that supposedly married us,  but didn't.” England shot France a questioning look, France returned it with eyes that didn’t want to elaborate on years gone by and experiences suffered. “Unless that stripper was ordained, then we have a problem." France continued.

"Woah, woah- wait one moment- weren't we out with Prussia and Spain last night?" Arthur suddenly asked, whirling around with his cup of tea.  _How_  could he have forgotten? Where were they? It's physically impossible to overlook Gilbert, the Prussian made sure of it.

France's eyes lit up, "Oui! I gave Prussia my phone- because... because... I can't remember why!" But then France's eyes widened comically in fret. "Merde! If Prussia has my phone that means Prussia has either lost it or has access to everything on it!"

"Oh my God," England pats himself down, somewhat brainlessly considering he was only wearing speedos. "Where's  _my_  phone?! and my wallet- and my car keys- my travel insurance card is in my wallet-"

"I have pictures of myself on there the world is not ready to see!" France gasps, regret and terror gripping him and he starts looking around there room.

England's knuckles go white as he grips his mug tighter in anxiety. "What if I choke on an olive stone or catch a cold swimming in the Mediterranean and end up in a Spanish hospital, France? Does my insurance cover that if my cards lost!?"

France glared at England's worries, believing them to be trivial in comparison to his.

"What?" England asked defensively after a gulp of tea to sooth his nerves. "Oh come on, it's not like you haven't leaked your own nudes before. That's nothing new. Stop being dramatic." England rationalises. "Travel insurance is much more pressing."

“It’s not my nudes I’m entirely worried about,” France retaliates, a joke delivered dubiously. "What if he leaks  _your_  nudes?"

It alarms France that England doesn't even realise he's joking with him as he watches England go through 1 phase of confusion, the 3 steps of deduction, then 6 stages of grief. "Don't be preposterous, I'd never take..." He trails off, really thinking hard about it. To France? Would he?  _Has_  he?

"Sober? No. Drunk? Well..." France would be doing the French people a disservice if he let this opportunity slip him by, so he leaves England hanging. Sure, they'd had a few drunken flings over the past few decades, as most nations do, who doesn't? But England had never sent France any pictures of the sort. Still, France took delight in England second-guessing himself, wondering if he had ever done as such before, because no one would put it past the Englishman. Evidently, England knew he was a different man when drunk, proven by the horrified expression on his own face. Alcohol always brought out a side of him that was the biggest threat to his dignity and last night was blatant testament to that.

England quickly lifted his tea to his lips, took a few massive gulps of it to scorch his tonsils and prepare him for the task ahead before he marched over to France, tugging him from the sofa by the ear. "Right, lets go! Go shower, brush croissant carnage from your teeth and get dressed! We have to work out what on Earth happened last night and find  Prussia before Germany realises he's missing!"

"Oui oui, Captaine!" France rolls his eyes and salutes lazily, but stops to make himself a cup of coffee first, which he takes with him to drink  _in_  the shower, leaving behind one mind-boggled England, wondering about the technique of drinking while showering.

* * *

 

After one fashion show involving France modelling every single outfit he’d brought with him in his suitcase and some top-notch heckling from England, an incident with the hairdryer, another cup of tea and, coffee and one argument in which France managed to talk England out of wearing socks with sandals (the Englishman wasn't so stylistically challenged to commit such a crime but he'd lost his only pair of trainers the night before while drinking in one of the string of bars they’d worked their way through), they were on their way down to reception once again, looking fresh, fierce and _fucking sun burnt_ on England's part.

  
"If you were an idiot with a drinking problem, what would you do? Where would you go?" England questioned aloud, deliberating how Sherlock Holmes, fictional man of his dreams (in a ambitious sense) would approach such a conundrum.

France, what could become his horribly French John Watson, looked at England, raising a preened, brushed brow. "Aren’t you talking about yourself?" he quipped, smile curling his lips.

" _Gilbert obviously_ , you idiot!" The affront on England's face and volume of his voice resulted from strange glances from onlookers they walked past.

"Gilbert knows his limits,” France shot a mischievous look England’s way. “It's a more fitting description of yourself."

Inhaling patience through his nose, England rolled his eyes and looked down at his shoes quickly and sceptically - shoes belonging to France. Seemingly inexpensive enough and thank God for that. It had never occurred to England that he and France had the same size of feet.

"I'd like to point out I don't drink one glass of wine a day because I claim it's good for 'softening' the heart.”

“Gilbert wouldn't say that, he doesn't drink wine."

"I'm talking about you this time!"

"I thought you were talking about Gilbert?"

"Not anymore!"

"Then why would you ask me about my whereabouts when I'm right next to you?"

"That question was about Gilbert-" England shoved France at the devious smile playing on France's lips. "Stop acting stupid, it exhausts me."

"Good. you've been in hysteria since you woke up, you're giving me a headache. Maybe you should go for a nap later?"

"Absolutely not, I don't have time to nap! There's too much too solve." England says, determined. "And I'm sore- and tired, of course I'm going to be catty! Don't you find it alarming waking on sun beds too?"

"No, Not really," answers France aloofly. "I wake up in weird places all the time."

England stares at him as they both wait for the receptionist to finish making her call.

"Aren't you going to ask?" France prompts, obviously having a story or two to tell.

"Absolutely not." England says flatly. The receptionist puts down the phone at that exact moment, addressing the both of them and thereby preventing France from sharing unwanted information.

"Can I help you two?"

"Ah, yes." England quickly elbows France, winding him to purposefully hinder his input. "Did you perhaps see a Prussian- er, German fellow around recently, last seen late yesterday evening, bit of a loud, self-adoring prick, albino, red eyes, well, somewhere between the colour of cherries and blackcurrants, devil's spawn-"

France elbows England in retaliation, not wanting England's unconventional description of Gilbert to put this lovely lady off him. She'd responded to his flirting earlier that morning enthusiastically but if England painted himself and Gilbert like weirdos, France may never have a chance with this woman. "Nice to see you again, chérie!" He chimed out over England's wheezing and creative cursing. "I must thank you for earlier, it was very kind of you to bend the rules just for me. I brought the ID and money you requested, as promised." he said with a smooth wink and a charming smile, sliding his passport onto the counter then setting down the cash. "Perhaps I could thank you properly over dinner?"

The woman seemed to titter and coyly tuck hair behind her ear, "Thank you Francis, I was just about to chase your room number up on this," she flushed red and England rolled his eyes, just barely resisting the urge to wretch at seeing France's flirting up close.

Looking down, she checked the ID and cashed the money. "I suppose I'm free tonight? My shift finishes at 3-" She says, eyes skimming over France's hand resting on the desk. Her head snaps up.

"You're married!?" She exclaims, appalled at the sight of the gleaming gold ring on his wedding finger.

"What!?" France’s eyes widen in alarm. "Merde! Non! Well- oui, mais- it's not what you think-" he stammers.

Glee seems to spread across England's face. What sort of self respecting Englishman would he be if he didn't stand on a Frenchman's toes every so often? 

"Ah yes, to me actually!" the Englishman butts in, rather chipper at getting France back for the stunt with the bodybuilding scouser that morning. "Just yesterday, actually. You could say this is the honeymoon phase. Married life is going swimmingly," his tone is sprinkled with the perfect dusting of sarcasm. "Considering he's already flirting with everything that breathes." Smirking over at France, who is gaping at him in betrayal, England crosses his arms so the woman can easily glimpse the matching gold ring glinting on his finger.

Revenge is so sweet, especially when it's served with little to no effort.

The receptionist considers England with wide eyes, hand covering her mouth slightly, horrified.  "I'm so sorry, señor. I did not know." She says curtly, then glares back at the Frenchman. With barrage of angry Spanish spilling out of her, she eventually chases France from the lobby. France then returns to chase England from the lobby, a barrage of angry French echoing up and down the subsequent corridors as England runs from him and _oh_ , the squabbling that occurred for the next 5 or 10 minutes and the headache that hangs around for another 10 minutes after that are all completely worth it, England thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is awkward! Hi. I'm trying to get back into writing and decided to indulge in this chaos again. I have no idea what is going to happen with this, only that all I want is for England and France to become bigger disasters with each chapter. 
> 
> Anyway, 'till next time! Which hopefully won't be too long...

**Author's Note:**

> I started this self-indulgent lil thing to entertain myself lmao. I hope it entertains some of you too!
> 
> Me? Posting more FrUk on my profile? It's more likely than you think.


End file.
